Opening with an apology is usually the way to go with these things – especially when it’s as late as this thing is.
The reason behind why it’s late is somewhere between; ‘I forgot to do it‘, ‘I had more interesting things taking up my time‘ and ‘I couldn’t be arsed‘
Those that know me well have already made their mind up about which of those is the most accurate. And those that know me less well will now have an inkling of what the others are thinking – and are following it up with “Why do you keep letting him back in?”
Initially this was going to be a rambling blog (as is my way) about whatever it was that happened during our September meeting. I knew this on the night off the meeting so I knuckled down and took copious notes – and I can show them to you if you don’t believe me … once I find my pad. All I can remember is the running gag we had about Captain Bob being double-booked with our writing group and his panto group, which were in another room (“Oh no he wasn’t!“). Very reminiscent of those 70’s sitcoms where Terry Scott had the vicar over for dinner, while trying to also host the rugby club in the lounge at the same time. Poor June, I’m sure it happened in every series – it certainly felt that way.
Instead I’m going to ramble about not being arsed, because when it comes to writing I find myself more and more being afflicted with the effects of not being arsed.
There was a time when I’d be walking down the street and an idea would fly into my brain from nowhere, and I would hungrily devour every morsel of it – noting it in my pad, mentally masticating it during the walk, and then regurgitating it onto the page when I got home. These days though, I just can’t be arsed.
I find myself walking down the street, and while the ideas are now grazing on the plains at the same rate of decrease as the near extinction of the American buffalo, I still see one occasionally and can recognise it from a distance (an idea not a buffalo, although I do know what a buffalo looks like). The difference now is that once I have it I can’t be arsed doing anything with it. It’ll amuse me for a while but one moment it’s there and the next it’s gone. It might come back to me or it might not, like a butterfly gorging on a lilac tree.
When I was on a bit of form I looked forward to the readings and the members news because there was always a little ideas monkey scrambling round in my brain on a tiny motorbike, tossing handfuls of inspiration out like the confused but plentiful contents of a paper shredder. In those days I didn’t mind losing the odd bucketful because there was always more where that came from. And now there aren’t. Or isn’t. What’s the right way of saying that?
And here comes a perfect example of the subject in hand, because while I was wondering about the correct way to finish that last line, the rest of what I was going to write has left the Lilac tree, and try as I might I can’t tempt it back. And to be honest, I really can’t be arsed.
Les Green, September 2016